


Pain and comfort

by brooklyn09



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklyn09/pseuds/brooklyn09
Summary: Greg is shot on the job. Mycroft helps him through it.





	Pain and comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one shot h/c fic. I'm not a doctor. This is more about the feelings than the actual injury. :)

He is vaguely aware of being rolled down a stark, wide hallway, with steel doors symmetrically spaced along either side. 

“Which room?” he hears the voice above him ask.

“ 5. ” Comes the voice somewhere to the left. As he is being pushed feet first into the room, he sees wide metal sinks with tall, sleek, curved faucets lining a small hallway between room 5 and the next room. Hospital. Operating room, his brain registers faintly. 

He is hastened into a cavernous, chilled room bathed in a calming sea green color with bright florescent light. Various video monitors are hanging from the back wall, people in light blue smocks with their lower faces covered bustling about. Stainless steel instruments are sitting on a nearby tray. He is gently lifted to another gurney and situated on the mattress, his head buttressed by a thin pillow. Gentle voices are fussing over him, attaching various leads and apparatus to his arms, chest and fingers. He is aware of someone sitting behind his head, out of his visual range, and he can hear the person fiddling with equipment unobservable to him. 

Greg’s eyes are drawn to the ceiling, and he starts to feel his eyeballs moving of their own accord, following shimmering patterns scattering in lazy paths above. 

“I’ve added something to your IV. Are you feeling this Greg?” the voice behind him says.

“Yeah, I am…” Greg finds his voice slurring. 

“You’ll be just fine. You’re going to go to sleep now. It will all be over soon." 

And Greg knows no more.

XXXXX

Greg wakes to the sound of indistinct, murmuring voices. His eyelids are heavy, and he is content to just lay there and breathe. He feels pretty good actually. Calm, and at peace. Warm, nestled under layers of heated blankets. Similar to the feeling when he wakes next to Mycroft after a good night’s slumber. Mycroft. Where is he? He can’t think, his feelings are jumbled. Thoughts of Mycroft quickly leave his head, replaced by others. He is moving. Being pushed again. He hears voices, more defined this time. Mycroft’s soft, lilting voice. Talking with another person. 

"He’s doing fine. He should be coming around soon. The surgery went well….”

Greg loses the thread of the conversation. He is still moving, being propelled steadily forward. He wants to open his eyes, take note of his surroundings. See Mycroft. He knows he heard his voice. But it is too much effort. 

He feels himself being pushed into a room. His bed being locked into place. Someone fussing with the IV attached to his arm, and the pulse oximeter attached to his finger. He hears someone say “The doctor will be in shortly.” He feels the air shift to his right. Someone carefully lifts his hand, the one unencumbered with medical leads, and holds it gently in theirs. He dozes.

XXXXX

Pain. He wakes to insistent, stabbing pain in his abdomen. A whimper escapes his lips unbidden. He tries to shift his body to get away from the pain, but that only makes it worse. 

“Gregory?” a voice queries to his right. He knows that voice. That voice is safe, protecting. It will take away his pain. 

With effort, he opens his eyes, and a blurry image of his husband comes into view. He almost cries out in relief. “My'croft”, he mumbles. 

“I’m here, my love.”

Another voice. Female. “Greg? Can you hear me?”

“Mmm” he grunts. Talking requires too much effort.

“Can you tell me your level of pain, on a scale of 1 to 10?”

Greg considers, trying to collect his thoughts. Licking his lips, he murmurs “8”.

“Ok love, we’ll take care of that for you. Just relax, it will ease soon.” And the voice was right, because it does.

XXXXX

When he wakes next, he is curled on his side, facing the windows. It’s gray outside, dusk. He can see snowflakes falling leisurely to the ground. Sitting next to him, dozing in a recliner, is Mycroft - head resting on his fist, with his elbow propped on the arm of the chair. He looks tired and worn, his wayward curl having long ago escaped it’s usual fixed position on top of his head. His husband must feel his gaze upon him, as his eyes pop open.

“Gregory. You’re awake. How are you feeling?" 

Greg pauses a moment, gathering his thoughts and taking stock of his body.  
"Alright, I guess. As long as I just lay here and don’t move." 

"The doctor will be glad to see you awake. He should be doing rounds shortly.”

“What happened to me?”

“You were shot. Ambushed while making inquiries. He wasn’t even the person you were searching for. But your unexpected presence startled him, and he reacted hastily. Sergeant Donovan provided first aid until the medics arrived. And I was informed the shooter was apprehended and is in custody. ”

“Hmm. Good. And Sally’s ok?”

“She is fine. Worried about you, but physically fine. ”

Greg nods, and with those questions satisfied for now, begins to notice little things. The pull of the IV on the underside of his forearm. The compression wraps on each leg around his calves, intermittently expanding with air to prevent blood clots. The bandage on his abdomen, below his navel, and how it pulls when he moves just so. And the tube running between his legs….

“Mycroft. Do I have a catheter?”

“Yes darling. Needs must. There is no way you can get up right now to take care of that yourself.”

“Oi. ” Greg feels his cheeks warming. Necessary, but unpleasant nonetheless. 

He swallows, feeling a slight rawness in his throat. And notices a small abrasion on the inside of his upper lip. Mycroft sees him worrying it, touching the area gently with his tounge.

“You were intubated. Just as a precaution. Do you feel pain?”

“No, I just notice it is all. It’s fine, ” responds Greg.

Throughout the night, nurses come in to check his vitals, his dressing, and to top off his IV. His pain is kept at a manageable level except for one time, and as a result he finds tears coursing down his face to reflect his utter agony. He is given a stat dose of oxycodone to ease the pain, and it blessedly works. Through it all, Mycroft remains by his side, handing him water to sip, adjusting his pillows, holding his hand, trying to ease his discomfort. 

XXXXX

When he wakes the next morning, he feels marginally better. The pain is a dull throb, unless he moves too quickly. The catheter is removed late morning. He is encouraged to get up and begin moving. Mycroft assists him to the bathroom where he is able to at least sponge himself off. Too soon for a shower, but just the feeling of the wet, cleansing sponge on his body is heavenly. And to his utter delight, he can actually pee on his own. Sometimes it’s the little things. 

Mycroft gets him settled back in bed. He has a meal delivered from dietary. The doctor comes in, reports things are going in the right direction, and barring any complications he’ll be released the next day. Music to Greg’s ears. He never liked hospitals. After this experience, he likes them even less. 

Mycroft stays the night again. Greg knows he must be uncomfortable sleeping in the recliner, but Mycroft insists. Tells him he sleeps better in the chair next to him than he would if he was home in their bed alone. Greg doesn’t argue. He knows he wouldn’t win. 

Early the next morning, the doctor comes in, checks Greg over and signs his discharge papers. He’s given a list of symptoms to watch out for that would require further medical attention, and a list of activities not to engage in. No driving. No heavy lifting over 5 pounds. But the real killer - no sexual activity. For six weeks! The stitches need time to heal. He doesn’t want a relapse and to land back in the hospital. But six weeks! He might have survived being shot. He doubts he will survive this forced abstinence. Mycroft glances over at him and, as if reading his thoughts, a small smile begins creeping up on his face. Mycroft gives him a small pat on his leg, reassuring him, “You’ll be fine.” Greg sighs, and moans in frustration. The doctor chuckles and leaves.

Mycroft gathers their things, while a nurse gets Greg settled in a wheelchair despite his grumbled protestations of “I can walk.” The nurse looks at Mycroft, who rolls his eyes heavenward. It’s going to be a long six weeks, he muses. 

Once home, Mycroft gets Greg settled in their bed, fresh water, acetaminophen and ibuprofen nearby. Greg wisely declined the offer of stronger narcotics, their negative side effects far outweighing any purported benefit for him. Mycroft tucks Greg in, adjusting the duvet under his chin, cocooning Greg in warmth. 

“Rest now, I’ll be back to check on you soon. If you need me until then, just call me, I’ll come straightaway.” Mycroft nuzzles his nose against Greg’s cheek.

“Thanks, gorgeous, for staying with me. Taking care of me. I’m sorry this happened.”

“Nonsense,” replied Mycroft. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m just relieved you’re all right. Now sleep. I’ll be back soon.”

Greg hears Mycroft retreat down the stairs, and settles deeper into the duvet, soon overcome by peaceful sleep.


End file.
